


Atavism

by Deepdarkwaters



Series: Bespoke [12]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They kiss good morning with just the slightest hint of desperation, Eggsy bracing one hand against the bedstead bars and opening his mouth to Harry's. It's vaguely disgusting watching from this close, all tongue and spit strings when they eventually part, breathless. "You been mistreating my boyfriend, Merlin?" Eggsy asks, tucking his head down between Harry's neck and shoulder and wriggling in place, dazed grin blooming wide when Harry's hand returns to his hair and starts stroking again.</p><p>Instead of a verbal answer, and not even looking up from his newspaper, Merlin grasps Harry's pyjama shirt and tugs, revealing the scattered mess of livid purple teeth-shaped bruises marring the pale skin of Harry's shoulder, neck, chest, upper arm, everywhere low enough to be covered by his shirt and tie whenever he decides to get up and get dressed.</p><p>"Fucking hell," Eggsy murmurs, starry-eyed like he's gazing at something in the Tate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atavism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VioletSmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/gifts).



> Several months on from [Understood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7313428).

"Eggsy's invited himself for breakfast," Harry says.

There's something carefully nonchalant about his tone, like he's still trying to – not _hide_ his affection for the boy, exactly, but at least to be a bit more sophisticated about the whole thing than he actually is. Merlin's watched him fuck countless people over the last thirty years, but watching Harry fall in love is something rare and remarkable, precious. Merlin's not seen him as besotted as this about anybody in decades, not since those breathless days in the mid-eighties when Harry used to turn up late and artfully dishevelled to meetings and draw shameless little diagrams on his notepaper because he couldn't wait a whole hour to spill to his friend about whatever beautiful, depraved thing he'd been doing with Victoria the night before. Or the early nineties, the time Harry came home from a six-month undercover job in the States uncharacteristically quiet, almost thrumming with a secret that eventually burst from him later that night when Merlin was four fingers deep and refusing to move until he talked: _His name is Ira, he's an Air Force doctor. I met his mother. His mother, Merlin. I've not even met yours._

"Has he," Merlin murmurs, turning the page in his newspaper. Beside him in their HQ bed, Harry's got the stolen crossword page folded and half-filled, idle little doodles crammed into the blank space around the grid and clues. "Is that a hint for me to bugger off?"

"Of course not." Harry sounds offended, drawing more crooked little circles in the margins. "'A tax return is messy at first, reverting to type'. I just can't think this morning. Put me out of my misery."

"Mind elsewhere?" Merlin gets a sharp elbow in the bicep and grins against the rim of his coffee cup, he can't help it. "Letters?"

"Seven. A, blank blank blank, I, blank blank."

"Hm." His toast is cold now, the way he likes it, and he crunches off a jammy corner to help him think. Harry always stuffs his own into his face as quickly as possible, unable to bear anything but the greasy heat of melted butter on slightly burned toast not more than twenty seconds out of the grill. "What are you going to feed him? He's not having any of mine, yours is all gone."

"I'm sure I can find a spare sausage for him," Harry says mildly, then flinches and laughs at the retaliatory elbow Merlin digs into his ribs.

"You're appalling. Value-added tax."

"VAT?"

"Mm. Make it messy?"

Harry's sucking the ink end of his biro by accident, idiot, still sleepy with his absurd curly hair sticking up in every direction. There are moments that happen out of nowhere, just random fleeting lightning flashes every now and then, when Merlin loves him so fiercely he feels it like a clenching sort of pain around his lungs and heart. He's feeling it now, breathless and aching, and hurries it along with an impromptu kiss to Harry's cheek that conjures up the dimple there like magic when Harry smiles at him sideways, fond and warm. "Messy. Anagram?"

"Simpler. Come on, it's only three letters."

"Backwards. A-TAV. A tax return is messy at first, reverting to – oh, bloody hell," Harry mutters to himself, scowling at the Times and inking the letters in, " _atavism_."

"There you go."

"There's really no need to be so smug about it."

"I think," Merlin starts, then hushes when he hears the electronic chime of the retina and fingerprint scanners on the outside of the door being activated. Beside him, Harry – romantic fool, vain fool – is sitting up straighter and frantically trying to flatten his disastrous hair, as though Eggsy's never seen it like this before. As though he's never been to blame for messing it up before.

"Morning," Eggsy says as he's redoing the lock behind himself. He's dressed in his running gear, grey marl trackies soaked and darkened under the arms and down the chest with sweat. His hair's dripping with it, clinging limp and damp to his forehead, and when he trudges over to the bed and flops down on his front across both of their laps Merlin can see the gleam of sweat on the back of his flushed neck as well. Feels the strangest, strongest urge to see Harry lick it. Takes another sip of coffee.

"Darling," Harry greets him, gently rescuing his crossword page from underneath Eggsy's cheek. "Four, two, five, 'given wrong order to rejoin colleagues in the trenches'?"

"Ugghh," is all he says, then after a moment he adds, muffled in the duvet by Harry's hip, "Could be 'back to front'."

"Oh, yes, that's it. Perfect."

"Ain't you meant to do crosswords yourself? Didn't think it was a team sport."

Harry sniffs and throws page and pen down onto the carpet so he can slide his fingertips gently through the wet cropped hair at Eggsy's nape. "Shush. By the way, I wouldn't advise, you know, assuming the position. Merlin's in a feisty mood this morning."

"That right?" Eggsy says, tilting his head just enough to give Merlin the eye and a lazy little smirk before Harry's tugging impatiently at his clothes, helping Eggsy scramble up and rearrange himself astride Harry's lap. They kiss good morning with just the slightest hint of desperation, Eggsy bracing one hand against the bedstead bars and opening his mouth to Harry's. It's vaguely disgusting watching from this close, all tongue and spit strings when they eventually part, breathless. "You been mistreating my boyfriend, Merlin?" Eggsy asks, tucking his head down between Harry's neck and shoulder and wriggling in place, dazed grin blooming wide when Harry's hand returns to his hair and starts stroking again.

Instead of a verbal answer, and not even looking up from his newspaper, Merlin grasps Harry's pyjama shirt and tugs, revealing the scattered mess of livid purple teeth-shaped bruises marring the pale skin of Harry's shoulder, neck, chest, upper arm, everywhere low enough to be covered by his shirt and tie whenever he decides to get up and get dressed.

"Fucking hell," Eggsy murmurs, starry-eyed like he's gazing at something in the Tate. His fingers find Harry's buttons and nimbly unfasten them, swiftly slipping the silk pyjama shirt off to pool in wrinkles around his waist and elbows. "You couldn't wait for your brekkie tray?" As if porridge and toast and fancy French pastries could ever compare with the salty, sleepy warmth of Harry's naked skin first thing in the morning.

"Open," Merlin tells him, and shoves the last abandoned half-triangle of sticky strawberry toast from his plate into Eggsy's mouth. "Have you eaten?"

"Gonna make this side match that side," Eggsy says, spraying crumbs and tracing his fingertips over Harry's unblemished collarbone.

"Food, Eggsy."

"Banana." He swallows his toast and gives Harry his jam-smeared fingers to suck clean. "I'll go down the kitchens and beg an omelette or something in a bit, alright?"

"You should probably shower first."

"What's the matter, do I stink?" He looks unbothered, grinning at Harry and tapping his own neck until Harry buries his face there and takes a deep, happy breath in. "Smell like roses and sunshine, right, Harry?"

"Sweat and winter."

"Poetic little fuck, ain't you?" He nudges Harry's face away and, as promised, chooses a stretch of bare skin on the unbruised side to plant his teeth and bite down, gently at first and then, when Harry makes a beautiful broken little sound in his throat, slowly, carefully harder. "Freezing out there. Took almost five seconds off my best round the circuit but fucking hell I'm feeling it now, I'm knackered. Everything hurts. Why do I do this to myself?"

"Why _do_ you do it to yourself?" Harry asks. His voice is trembling slightly, cheeks tinting pink with every sucking bite Eggsy delivers to his shoulder.

"I dunno. Good sort of hurt, ain't it?" He leans back, admiring the purple circle imprint of his teeth. "Not like this, this is just you being a fucking perv. I mean when you run that hard, it's like Bedivere's shitty detox he keeps doing, just without drinking that swamp water bollocks. Kills but you feel better after."

"Not me," Harry says primly. "I refuse to run unless I'm being chased."

But he's giving Merlin a significant sort of look, unnoticed by Eggsy who's got his eyes closed and his plush pink mouth sucking a violent bruise an inch or two above Harry's nipple. _See_ , Harry finger-spells in American sign language, one-handed presumably so Eggsy won't notice too much movement. _Cathartic. Cleansing. Not just me. Please._

Merlin leans in and whispers in Harry's ear, the very lowest of breaths, "We'll talk later."

"What?" Eggsy says immediately, always loath to be left out of anything, looking up at Merlin with narrowed eyes from his resting place on Harry's chest. "What are you saying?"

"I'm asking Harry if he'd like to turn over and show you the bite marks on his arse as well while I'm in the shower."

"Fucking _yes_." Eggsy sounds triumphant like he's just won a prize, which actually isn't that far from the truth, really. "Hope you saved me a bit."

"You're both idiots," Merlin tells them as he's heading for the ensuite, but they're already far too busy to hear him – though not too busy to notice him still lingering in the doorway a while later and flash him matching dirty, beautiful grins.


End file.
